The Dining Table
by bloody inseparables
Summary: "Perhaps it was not the familiar wood of the counter top itself that offered such comfort to Athos, but the potential of the benches to invite such good company." A 900 word drabble exploring the tortured soul that is Athos and the love between brothers.(with lots of flowery language/purple prose!)


The Dining Table

 _Title:_ The Dining Table

 _Author:_ bloody inseparables

 _Chapters:_ 1

 _Words:_ 900

 _Rating:_ **T** (just to be safe, suggestions of mental illness, alcohol abuse and minor injury.)

Set any time after the events of 1x03, hopefully few spoilers.

 _All writing is unbetaed and so any mistakes are my own. I apologise in advance, I'm sure there will be some! Lol._

 _ **A/N:**_ Hello, Everyone! The idea for this little piece came to me whilst sitting in my chemistry class (I'm sure my teacher is delighted). I figured it could be quite interesting to write a quick descriptive piece exploring Athos' character. I wanted to explore the reliance that Athos holds on his brothers to keep him present and the loss he feels when they're not there with him. Athos is so tragically damaged, with such a profound frame of mind I just couldn't resist :) Apologies also for the incredibly flowery language. This is just a drabble, so there really isn't much plot I'm afraid!

 _ **Anyways, hope you enjoy and if you have a minute, please don't forget to stop by and leave me a review, I'd love to hear from you!**_

" _It isn't so much what's on the table that matters, as what's on the chairs."_

– _W. S. Gilbert_

At the dining table he waited. He sat as he had for hours, through the shaded ages of the night and onto the cusp of day. The soft chill of dusk dared not to touch him, his vigil so rapt and intimate it seemed almost transgressive of the weather to dare such an intrusion.

His watch was a mandatory one, the rigorous nature of his predicament self-imposed.

The giddy pallor of the breaking dawn did little to stir the man, it too failing to pull the watchman from his ethereal reverie. And indeed, to the unsuspecting eye, the image was one of a slumbering gentleman, his head bowed and the grip around his chalice lax. But sleep eluded him. Hypnos had refused him sanctuary, and so at the table the sentry remained, his carafe steadily draining to his goblet in a pitiful attempt to alleviate the emptiness churning his stomach to mud.

Though he drank, it was not to indulge. His art was a seasoned one, like that of a minstrel plucking the string of a lute to attain the perfect pitch, though the musketeer fiddled not the strings of the lute but the balance of the bottle. He was the Pied Piper, alcohol the woodwind upon which to play himself to the space between consciousness and oblivion.

A morose wind blew its way in from the gates, its bitter wrap enough to raise the hairs aback the man's hand and yet still he did not stir. He had no desire to feel anything, neither cold or warmth, pleasure or anxiety. And so with dull predictability he had sought solace from his liquid maiden, the thirst of his wretched heart quenched for but a moment under the numbing quality of the Merlot.

The man was not disturbed by the morning salutations of each of his countrymen as they emerged from their quarters one by one. He cared not for pleasantries, not when those from whom he coveted companionship so dearly were not with him. He needed them, felt their absence like a physical wound to his person, and though he may never admit it aloud, without them he feared for his ability to continue. He was lost. Lost in his own tragic mind as he yearned for clemency from what had been.

Had he not payed penance enough, Lord?

His Anne, an Androktasiai, a murderess, hung by the neck until dead somehow alive, alive and in his life again, her eyes a constellation of murder, of passion, of a future that was never to be: his two worlds were colliding with a shattering force that threatened to finally break him beyond repair.

His beloved wife.

The musketeer pulled his fingernails from the face of the table, unable to recall having dug into the wood with such force as to leave crescents in the table top, mildly surprised at the blood that dribbled from his nailbeds. The pain grounded him, and for the first time in his insomniac vigil the musketeer took a careful look at the table at which he found himself. With tenderness the man scarcely recognised he traced the imperfections of the wood, fingers falling on a small, clean notch: a bullet hole cut into the table top. He smiled wearily as he remembered the day it was put there and the circumstances under which it came to be.

The musketeer raised the goblet to his lips, draining the last of its contents, this time with no intention of drinking any more. He replaced the cup upon the table, a grateful smile ghosting his lips as the heavy hoof-falls of horses carried across the courtyard, the three riders pulling into view and dismounting instantly.

He stood, straightening the insignia upon his shoulder and repositioning his hat so as to sit it more comfortably atop his head before moving off, eyes only for the three people before him as they handed their horses to the stable hand to be untacked and watered.

"I'm to be saddled with you three for a while yet, then?"

Aramis splayed his fingers across his heart in mock offence, his second hand flying to his forehead like a pantomime dame. "Oh, how you wound me, Athos."

"Aw, Aramis, I think he missed us." Chuckled Porthos, throwing his arm around the neck of the melodramatic musketeer.

"I shouldn't think _missed_ per say, more… noted our absence." Added d'Artagnan, smiling gleefully.

"Come," stated Aramis, breaking from his theatrical display, patting Athos on the shoulder as he passed. "Let's see if Serge can find us something to eat. I want to see if I can shoot d'Artagnan's breakfast out of his hand again."

D'Artagnan spun on his heel, finger pointed inched from Aramis' nose.

"There are certain barbaric things one gentleman should never do to another, and shooting a hole through a man's breakfast is most defiantly one of them."

"Agreed," Seconded Porthos as the four took their places around the table.

"Hang on," supplied Aramis, smiling roguishly at the young Gascon. "Since when were you ever a gentleman?"

Athos allowed himself a moment of relief as he settled easily into the familiar air of his brothers, again running his fingers idly over the marred panelling of the table.

Perhaps it was not the familiar wood of the countertop itself that offered such comfort to Athos, but the potential of its benches to invite such good company.

 _ **The End**_

 **A/N:** Thank you ever so much for reading. This was very enjoyable (and challenging!) to write, so I hope it read that way!

 **If you have a minute, please feel free to stop by and leave me a review, I'd love to hear from you!**

Bless you and have a wonderful day!


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